


Given Space

by yilvoxe



Category: markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Comedy, Darkiplier is a malevolent world-ending entity so that's about the fantasy level, F/M, Fantasy, Mark is a himbo, Markiplier/OC - Freeform, Two POVs, but if you find it enjoy, does this qualify as slow burn?, main character is ace, mostly posted here to link friends to, my first fic on a03!!, this work does not take itself seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23795365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yilvoxe/pseuds/yilvoxe
Summary: Mark Fischbach was a really good guy, so it was a huge shock when he started killing people in broad daylight. Gwendolyn Pierce doesn't want anything to do with her secrets, she just wants to buy some milk for her cookies. When your evil doppelganger starts murdering people, what do you do?Mark definitely didn't expect to be involved with witches, or world-ending evils, or fabled weapons. All he's got are his fists and the uncanny ability to make anyone like him. Gwen didn't ask to be pulled back into the world she left as a child, helping her embarrassing YouTube crush save the world, but destiny seems to have other plans.And he swears he sees the stars in her eyes...
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter One - Gwendolyn

**Author's Note:**

> Hi welcome to my first A03 fic! If you clicked in either I linked you directly here (hi) or you read the tags and still thought you'd enjoy this, so I'm glad you're here! I hope you enjoy Given Space as much as I feel bittersweetly about it.

It's a new moon, and the world feels absolutely dark. For a city so sprawling and huge, there's no sound more chilling than the utter silence that hangs heavy over L.A. tonight. 

The murders were horrifying to a degree I can barely find the words to describe. They were all so extreme, so detailed in their maiming and dismemberment, it’s almost better to leave it to the imagination. Social media spread amateur video and pictures of a dark figure slashing and hacking, but nobody ever found a face. I'm fairly certain the murder count is at 57 now? I try to stay off social media since the lockdown was put into effect. 

One of the killings was a block from my house. It gets to you.

LAPD is working their asses off, I'm sure, but there hasn't been a single new lead since the first and people are scared shitless. I can't blame them. I, too, am scared shitless.

The first solid lead was a really clean, high quality video of the serial killer thrusting a knife into someone's chest in broad daylight, right in the middle of a crowd. That had been the first murder, I think? (It all happened really fast.) A girl named Anna, she was 27 and recently married. 

Anyway, the killer was Mark Fischbach. 

Lots of people thought it was just a really good deepfake at first, and I was one of them. It just didn't seem like something Mark could do. No, I didn't know him personally, but, well… okay, alright, he's an online content creator I loved. A YouTuber. A really nice, genuine guy who raised a bunch of money for charity and cared a lot about his fans. 

Well, he went missing. And then the murders continued. Then the FBI searched his apartment and found the murder weapon. So who knows if all that was completely fake, anyway. I don't like to think about it.

I would rather think about how absolutely goddamned brainless I am to be walking to Costco right now. God did not see fit to give me the brain cell today.

I mean, listen. I baked cookies, so there are nice warm cookies in my flat, then realized I had no milk. Do you expect me to eat dry cookies like some sort of heathen? It's a quick walk and I'm… let’s see...  _ fairly  _ confident I'm not going to get murdered. 

I get less confident with every step. It's genuinely spooky how quiet the streets are. Normally there's so much activity on these streets, it's hard to sleep for all the noise. But there's not a soul here save for a few poor minimum wage workers in the places stupid enough to be open. Even outside the curfew zones like we are, nobody is going outside. 

...Well, okay, except for me. Point taken. 

Costco is only like a minute from my apartment on foot, so it’s not that long before I round the corner and see the yellow light spilling out onto the street at the end of the block. And in front of it, a dark silhouette.

I stumble back and nearly shit myself in terror. Oh fuck, okay, abort operation milk, let's go home. This shit is too freaky. I am no longer confident I will not be murdered.

The figure, who was facing the end of the street, slowly turns at the sound of my panicked gasp (nice job, genius). It’s too dark to see any details, but my stupid brain is imagining a cheshire smile on that familiar face.

He then takes a step forward and says nothing. I take a step back. Oh my god, I’m about to be murdered by my embarrassing YouTube crush. This was a terrible idea. I should have just eaten the dry cookies.

I blink back the tears forming in my eyes and he poofs right out of existence before my eyes are open again. He’s just gone. I glance around wildly, feeling frozen in place, my boots glued to the pavement. My heart is thundering in my chest as the silence fills my lungs and ears. Is he gone? Did I hallucinate it all out of dumb fear?   
  
Then there’s a footstep behind me, a quiet one but so loud in my ears against a backdrop of silence, and before I can even think about moving there’s a choking pressure on my throat.

I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I’m frozen in place and I realize belatedly that there’s two very strong arms snapped tight around my neck, holding me still in a deadly chokehold. I open my mouth to scream and nothing comes out, just a hoarse gasp.  
  
The person behind me-- Mark?-- hisses in something of a sinister laugh, low and dangerous. I’d be more inclined to listen and try to ascertain who it is if I wasn’t being choked to death. My body starts to buzz with adrenaline as the last of my breath leaves my lungs. The longer it goes, the tighter they hold, and I just can’t stay awake. Nothing I’m doing in my panicked, adrenaline driven high is doing anything to budge them. I’m going to die.

My vision starts to distort and blur. My chest burns as I heave and writhe and fail to draw in a breath. I’m going to die. Tears well up in my eyes as I very deeply regret leaving my house in the middle of the night with a serial killer on the loose. My muscles start to weaken and I slowly stop struggling. I’m going to die.

My vision starts to go black. I’m going to die.

I’m going to die.

I hear a distant yell, getting closer. The grip on my neck loosens just a hair, enough to wheeze in the smallest breath. I slump forward, still weak and on the edge of consciousness, then feel something slam into my attacker with a lot of force.

They let me go, and I hear yelling and the sounds of a fight as I drop like a weight out of their chokehold. Ignoring the pain as I hit the street hard, I gasp and cough and heave for breath, sweet _air,_ holy _fuck._ Weak and barely awake, I begin to crawl away, desperate to escape even if it means I have to do so at half a mile an hour. My sight is returning, still dizzy, and my movements feel less like I’m drunk every second. Slowly, as the fight continues behind me, a measure of my strength returns and I turn my head to face them and see my hero.  
  
Apparently my sight hasn’t returned just yet, because I’m seeing double. Not one but two whole, bona fide Mark E. Fischbachs are fighting in the dim light of a Costco about a block from my house.

Yeah, I’m definitely dead. I struggle to my feet anyway, swaying and woozy, wishing it was that simple. 

I narrow my eyes. Which of these Marks tried to choke me to death, and which came to my rescue? One of the Marks wears a pressed suit, clean and pristine even as he fistfights with the other Mark. Well-- “fistfights” isn’t really accurate. His hands are open and clenched, and he fights like a wild animal, clawing and roaring. He’s more lanky and loose, eyes dark and wild. It’s terrifying to watch.

The other Mark is fighting like a normal human being, fists closed, sweat beading his brow. He wears a muscle shirt, and from that I can see every vein in his arm as he struggles against his other for ground. There’s a thick blood stain matting his hair to his forehead. When I take an aimless step forward to help, his eyes snap to me, and something like relief spills into his eyes. I melt a little at the look, stumble a bit. His eyes harden. “Run!” He shouts.  
  
Am I allowed to guess yet? 

I don’t have time. When he turns to look at me, Good-Mark loses his concentration, and Evil-Mark takes a hefty swipe at his chest. When I look closer, his nails more closely resemble talons. They slice through the shirt, and then Good-Mark’s skin, spraying blood in their wake. I realize that I should turn heel and run, but the air around me feels like honey and I struggle to force myself to move at all.

Good-Mark howls in pain and clutches his stomach, then stumbles back, his gaze snapping back to his opponent. It’s too late. The other Mark aims a low kick at his shin, and Good-Mark stumbles back again, tripping and falling onto his back with a low goan. I can see the blood on his stomach spreading, helplessly watch the violent grin on the other's face as he slowly steps forward and lifts his foot, moving to grind his heel into the wound. I’m weak again, frozen in place, useless. Good-Mark weakly turns his head and mouths it again. “Run.” 

I’m overwhelmed. I’m trying desperately not to cry. I feel like each of my limbs has turned to stone and I feel simultaneously like I have to run away or I’ll die so my brain is essentially just screaming and I barely have room to process anything else over all the AAAAAAAAAAAA. 

But the way he gasps and winces when the other Mark grinds in his heel catches my attention. My thoughts flicker to a few sleepless nights spent in front of a low-brightness phone screen watching someone who tried his hardest to make people happy. And all of a sudden? Turning and running just isn’t an option anymore.

Possessed by the strength I’ve lacked, I burst through the paralysis that held me before and rush back into the action. Something niggling in the back of my mind advises me exactly where to place my heel to deal the most damage, so I rear back and throw my whole weight into driving my boot through his kneecap. A furious noise, deep and loud, roars in my ears. Maybe my heartbeat.  
  
There’s a loud, splintering crack that echoes. The silence that follows fills the void like air in a vacuum for a split second that stretches and stretches. The air tingles and sparks and I look on. So does Mark, who appears to be holding in a breath. I realize that I am, too. 

The evil, wrong man’s leg is bent completely backward, his knee shattered. Blood slowly begins to blott, then soak, the pristine suit he wears.

Another half-beat of silence, of stillness, of a breath taken in all at once, then a scream that deafens me and causes Mark to flinch away with his whole body. I break through my fear again and move as the creature stumbles back, grasping its leg and howling in pain. I stoop to the floor and grab Mark’s hand. I’m shaking and moving too fast. He’s already struggling to his feet, and I help him up as much as I can, but my temporary strength is fading.  
  
Once more, he leans in and urges me desperately, blood and sweat running down his temple, to run. I shake my head, lips pulled tight into a line, and hold tight to his arm.

“Can you-- run?” I ask lowly, sheepishly, eyes darting to his open wound. It looks about as good as an open claw wound caused by an angry demon-thing can look. We need to treat it right away, that much is obvious, but to do that we need to GET away.   
  
“I’ll manage,” he groans, pulling away from my grip on his arm. He follows, though, when I pull ahead and gesture at the coming corner, and true to his word, he picks up the pace as we round it at less than top speed.

Anxiety and embarrassment begin to drip into my chest, pooling faster than I’d like, and I lean into the buzz of adrenaline as we take off down a small road. The long way back to my apartment, I took it on instinct. I want to shake that guy, if he’s following (guess it’s female-instinct habit).

Mark heaves and gasps in pain, and while the sound shakes me, it lets me know he’s still there. I glance behind me anyways, and to my immense relief I find only one Mark following.   
  
I nod my head down the street I live on then round the corner, my anxiety finally beginning to ease up even as my lungs begin to burn. I don’t dare slow down for even a second. I begin fumbling around in my purse for my keys as we approach the apartment building, making a split second decision based on my horrendous guilt. We bolt up the steps and duck inside the lobby, and I hit the elevator button instead of racing up the stairs.  
  
Mark pauses before the stairs, panting and sweating, but he still manages to quirk an eyebrow. 

“Eleventh floor,” I explain, out of breath myself, leaning on the wall and gasping for breath. He pauses for a beat then tilts his head and nods. The “fair enough” motion makes me laugh a little, breathless.

When the door slides open, we both walk inside a little faster than we should, but I keep making backwards glances at the door and so does he so I figure we’re both happy to get out of the open.

Now there’s time to stand still, and given half an opportunity I collapse to the floor on the spot. As the adrenaline begins to fade from my system, there’s nothing to dull my horror and embarrassment and oh my god, there’s Mark Fischbach standing right there, alone, in the elevator with me.

Mark Fischbach.

A wanted murderer.

With an open wound.

In my apartment building.

I seriously should have just eaten the dry cookies.


	2. Chapter Two - Gwendolyn

Blessedly, mercifully, the awkward silent elevator ride doesn’t seem to last for hours and hours like it usually does. The adrenaline in my system is fading out, so time feels weird and too fast. I don’t say anything, just breathe, short and shallow. I can hear his breathing too.

He’s leaned up against the wall clutching his stomach, struggling to keep his breathing even and deep. I watch him close his eyes and tilt his head back, a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead and into his cheek.

I look away and harshly scold myself for getting distracted. This is ostensibly the guy who killed 57 people. Embarrassing YouTube crush or not, this isn’t the time. This is just about as “not the time” as a time can get.  
  
The elevator dings, and I rise to my feet. Mark’s breath hitches as he pushes off the wall and stumbles into the hallway through the half-open door, and I follow, not running but hurriedly walking to my door just a few feet away. My keys are still in my hand. I realize a little late that I’ve been clutching my door key between my knuckles like a weapon. That probably wasn’t a very comforting sight. When did I do that?

In any case, I slip the key in the door and turn, still checking my surroundings as I push the door open. It’s dark, and my heart leaps to my throat as I fumble around for the light switch. Of all the times to remember to turn my lights off when I leave, I had to do it today.   
  
When I finally flip the switch and dart my eyes around the room to find nobody there, I’m embarrassed at the feeling of relief that courses through me. I step through the doorway first, then I hear Mark panting behind me and around in a snap. He tries to protest as I hook his arm over my shoulder, but I’ll hear none of it. The smell of blood washes over me as I support the hefty man over to the couch and lower him down.

“Don’t--” he gasps. I cut him off and putter over to the little closet off to the side, pulling down a first aid kit. “I’m going to ruin your couch.”

I snort. Is that what he’s worried about? Then I cover my mouth and suppress the immediate self-loathing that washes over me. Real classy. “It’s alright,” is all I respond with.

I’m acting like a fool. This is so immature. Really, I’m too old to act like this. I open up the first aid kit, glance it over, will myself to remember that first aid certification class I took in 6th grade, then finally pull my phone out of my back pocket.

“Hey google.” I pause and hear the ding as my phone lights up. “How do I treat a stomach wound?”  
  
Mark groans on the couch and covers his eyes with his arm.

* * *

“There. Not so bad, is it?” I stand up from my spot beside the couch and stretch my arms. Feels like I’ve been kneeling there for an hour (It’s been fifteen minutes). “Feeling any better?”

“Doesn’t hurt as much,” he admits slowly, easing himself up to sit upright. His hands find the gauze I’ve wrapped around his torso, gingerly pressing at the area around his wound until he finds it and winces. “Thought I was gonna die when you poured that stuff over it, I’ll admit.” 

He begins to stand up and cringes, and I grab his arm and ease him back down, struggling to keep my face straight and even as I feel my cheeks begin to burn. Taking his shirt off and treating his wound up close was torture enough, but at least then I had something to focus on. “You need to take it easy.”

“I’ve stayed long enough,” he manages, shaking me off rather rudely and continuing to struggle to his feet. “Promised I wouldn’t get anyone else involved with this.”  
  


“You saved my life,” I respond softly, placing a hand on his shoulder and attempting to guide him back down. This time, he doesn’t push me away. “At least let me return the favor. It’s late and you’re hurt. Stay the night.”

“You saved mine.” His voice is hesitant, and I can tell from his rather obvious body language that he’s considering it. “The debt is repaid. I have to go.”

“I’ll call the cops.” 

He freezes. I didn’t want to resort to this, but I’m not letting him leave until he’s at least a little healed and I have some answers. (And yes, that IS all I want, stop side-eyeing me.) He very slowly lowers himself back down to sit on the edge of the couch and shoots me a dirty look as I thank whatever god is listening that worked.  
  
“That’s dirty.” He laughs a little, just a tiny bit bitter. 

When I look closer, he’s gaunt. More thin than usual. He looks so tired. “You’re a wanted serial murderer.” I shrug, gingerly seating myself on the couch opposite him. “After what I saw tonight, I don’t believe it. But you know something. And I need you to tell me.”  
  
“It’s a long explanation.”

“I’ve got time. Want me to whip up some dinner?”

“No, that’s fine. I’ll live.”

I give him a look. He’s starving. I know that man’s physique, for totally normal reasons, and he looks terribly thin. “Quit being a martyr. I’m gonna make food and you’re gonna eat it.”

He groans, and I stand up. Am I being a bully? Maybe a little. But my head is swimming, and there’s no difference between up or down right now. All I know is the right thing to do right now is be kind and take care of someone who needs help. 

I cook something easy from a box. You just boil water and put it on to simmer, so it only takes a minute to start, and in that time he’s gathered his thoughts enough to start.

“Are you, uh, a fan…?” He cringes a little as he says it, completely self aware of how dumb it sounds. “God, I’m sorry. That sounds so stupid.”

“Yeah, it does.” I respond simply, not bothering to hide a smile. “And yes. How else would I have known which Mark was the right one?”  
  
“God, what a relief.” He buries his head in his hands and laughs, tired but still rich and full. “This whole situation, it’s-- just completely weird. I don’t believe it myself.”

“So that was--” I stifle an incredulous laugh. “Darkiplier.” 

He nods, lifting his head, and I can see visible irritation on his face. “Sure enough,” he grumbles. “My YouTube alter ego is framing me for serial murder.”

“I wouldn’t believe you if I hadn’t seen it myself.” And it’s true, I wouldn’t. What a stupid idea that would be for a fanfic. But it’s real-- I saw it. I kicked it, actually. “It’s kind of a relief, you know. Knowing it wasn’t you who killed all those people.” My voice is soft, more sentimental and gushy than I’d like.

“Nobody else seems to think so.” He lays back on the couch, stretching an arm back and grimacing faintly. I want to yell at him, but whatever, if he wants to reopen his wounds that’s on his stupid ass. “I’ve been running from the cops and Dark for a week.”

“A week?” I interrupt loudly, incredulity thickening my voice. He shoots me a look with narrowed eyes and I duck back into the kitchen to stir the rice.

“I shouldn’t be staying here,” he repeats, sighing heavily. “I’m putting you in danger. The cops are one thing, but Dark is… he’s a different kind of powerful. He doesn’t listen to stuff like physics. I’ve seen him melt through doors, you know? It’s like he’s not even there until he’s squeezing the life out of you.”  
  
“You seemed to be doing okay until I distracted you.”

“Thanks for that, by the way.”  
  
“Oh, don’t mention it.”

“Anyways,” he continues, a bit louder, “That’s my point. I’m not sure what it is, but I-- I think, if I figure it out, I can beat him. But it has to be me. Nobody else can touch him. So I need to--” 

“Except me.”

He pauses, staring into his hands for a few seconds, before he lifts his head and meets my eyes. I almost flinch away at the rawness of his expression. “...What?”

“You said nobody else could touch him. But I did, obviously.” I turn away from his gaze as realization dawns in his eyes. God bless the rice on the stove. Best distraction I could ask for.

“You’re…” he bites his lip. I look away again, forcefully. “Damnit, you’re right. I’ve seen that guy take bullets like they’re nothing, not even flinch at a sucker punch to the jaw, but _you--_ you kicked his knee clean in like it was nothing.”

“So that means you can’t get rid of me?” I ask cheekily, catching the timer just before it goes off and moving the pot off the stove. “I mean, wouldn’t it make more sense to stick together? I’d think that he’d be pretty mad at both of us. Me especially.” I tap my chin in mock thought, keeping my gaze on the sausage I’m cutting up. “Didn’t you say you didn’t want anyone else getting hurt?” 

“Getting _involved,”_ he corrects, and I grin. 

“Too late.”

He shoots me another look, but this one just looks defeated. “I hate that you’re right.”

I’m satisfied with that, so I let the silence fall over the room like a soft blanket, and in between furtive glances stolen at him, he’s closed his eyes and began to rest. I’m happy I can provide that for him.

While the sausage browns, once his breathing evens out and I’m fairly sure he’s asleep, I seize the opportunity to duck into my bedroom and open the drawer in the closet. 

Sorry to the uninitiated but shit is about to get real weird. However, shit was already hella weird, so whatever. Deal with it.

Various tools of the trade are hung up on the wall of the small cabinet-- wands, athames, besoms, (okay alright that’s just a broom,) racks full of spices and spell blends, a few jars on a shelf labeled with oft-used items. Basil. Salt. Basil and salt mix. Garlic. 

...Is Dark a vampire? 

I grab an empty bowl I undoubtedly had eaten chips out of from off my nightstand and mix all three in anyways. If there’s some extra salt in there, whatever. Pretty sure potato chip crumbs don’t counteract the protective properties of salt and basil, but I guess we’ll see.

I hope he’s still asleep. This would all be a bitch to explain to my embarrassing YouTube crush.

I take the bowl back into the main living area and gingerly close my door, careful not to make too much noise. I stir the sausage in the pot as I pass, bowl in one hand. I watch Mark carefully as I walk to the door, taking a pinch of the protective blend and sprinkling it over the doorway. I pause, then unceremoniously dump half the bowl in front of the entryway.

He cracks an eye open. Shit. Fuck.

“What are you doing?” He asks slowly, blinking once at the sight of me dumping a bunch of salt all over my doorway.

“...Salting the doorway,” I respond honestly, dumping the other half of the bowl around the floorboards surrounding the doors. Well, if I’m gonna look crazy, might as well do it in style.

“...Why?” He asks, his voice low and confused. 

“To keep Dark out,” I reply as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You did say he could melt through walls. Well, not… these. Anymore.”

Oh my god. Oh my god. Let me shrink into the floor and die. I am the biggest fool on the planet.

“You are extremely fuckin’ weird,” is all he says, closing his eyes again. Well cool, that’s fun. I just looked like an absolute fucking lunatic in front of my embarrassing YouTube crush.

I trudge back to the kitchen with my face absolutely blazing red to finish up dinner. My dry cookies are on a plate off to the side, and I eye them with a measure of regret. 

Dinner doesn’t take long to finish, maybe five more minutes of awkward, torturous silence wherein I wish I was dead and could curl up in a ball in a dark corner and hide for every waking second.

When it’s all done, I let out a small sigh and dish up two hefty bowls of it. I carry them both, steaming, out to the couch and clear my throat as I approach. Mark wakes up (looks like he was actually sleeping this time, the bastard) and sits up, not grimacing so much as he moves. Maybe it’s wishful thinking to believe he’s already healing, but I’m glad he’s feeling better, at least.

He almost looks as if he’s going to refuse the bowl at first, but I shove it into his hands and walk away too quickly. I sit down on the couch opposite him, swinging my legs up and digging in. I haven’t eaten all day, and I’m famished. Can’t imagine how he feels. When was the last time he ate? 

I open my mouth to ask, but he’s digging in too. And I mean that. Just, like, shoveling it in. He looks absolutely famished. I turn away and eat my food quietly to give him some space. My chest feels warm at the idea that I could help him somehow.

When he finishes his bowl and I hear the clatter of the fork, I turn my head and gesture widely at the kitchen. “There’s a whole pot in there. Help yourself. You need the strength to get better.”

He grumbles a little, but stands up with some difficulty and walks to the kitchen without much protest this time. “Okay, _mom_.” I giggle and turn back to my food.

He ends up eating three-quarters of the pot. I wish I can say I’m surprised. I’m full after one bowl, anyway, so it’s no bother, and I tell him that so he doesn’t feel like a burden again. When he’s finished and full, and I take the bowls back to the kitchen, he lays back on the couch and stares up at the ceiling. 

“...Thank you.”

“It was a two-dollar box of rice and some sausage.”

“For not letting me leave and bleed out on the side of the street,” he continues, throwing me an irritated, amused look. Amused is good. I’ll take amused. “You were right. Dying for nothing, starved and alone… it wouldn’t help anything.”

“Your words,” I shrug, rinsing the plates in the sink. I resolutely ignore the way my heart skips a beat. Stupid fucking heart. “Listen, you didn’t… ask for this. And neither did I. But we’re both here now, and there are people dying. So I’m down if you are to team up and take Dark down.”

This is the most absurd shit I have done in my life, and that’s saying a lot. Look at my closet. But it’s serious, and despite the weirdness of it all, it feels weighty to say. Mark nods slowly, turning to look at me with the first smile I’ve seen since we met. I match it.

“Sounds like a plan, uh…" he pauses, scratches the back of his head sheepishly. "I never actually got your name, come to think of it.”

“My name is Gwendolyn,” I respond, finally breaking eye contact to hide my blush and schoolgirl smile. “My friends call me Gwen.”

He smiles again, tilts his head. “Nice to meet you, Gwen.”

My heart explodes in my chest, killing me instantly.


	3. Chapter Three - Mark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The POV switches to Mark here (it was a lot more clear in the original formatting). Check the chapter titles to see whose perspective the story is told from, as this gets very important later.

I can’t sleep without complete darkness. Never have been able to. But not being able to see my surroundings unsettles me so much I can’t shut my eyes for fear I won’t open them again.

The wound on my stomach stings and hisses every so often, reminding me of how close I was to death. The bandages around my waist are wet, and I avoid touching them after what happened the first twenty times I did. Pain, every time. I am not a smart man. 

But it’s all so… I’m not supposed to be here. None of this feels real at all, like it’s some nightmare I can’t wake up from.

Dark is just that. A living nightmare. I can still see his eyes, empty as sin, boring into me from the mirror. I can still feel the way it felt like my skin was being ripped off as he split from me, coughing and writhing as he wriggled out of my body. I consider myself quite the big boy but I cried at the pain, fell to the floor and wept as the rawness began to fade and he stood up, leaving the bathroom and shutting the door behind him.

It was just a bad dream. A nightmare, a headache-induced hallucination. But the next morning, I killed someone in the middle of a huge crowd.

No, _he_ did that. _I_ threw up when I saw the video.

This couch is soft and I’m exhausted. Everything is dark and silent and calm. She’s in her bedroom, hopefully asleep. Wouldn’t do for both of us to be complete insomniacs.  
  
So… who the hell is she?

I’ve never met her before. I was certain, when I saw how Dark moved and killed, how he shrugged of bullets and knives and struggling fights like he didn’t even exist, that he was untouchable. He killed almost 5 dozen people like that, just slaughtered them. I saw more than one. He was following me, I’m sure of it.

When I saw him choking her to death, I was stupid. I didn’t think, I was just suddenly on my feet, barreling towards him. I couldn’t watch this again. I was sure I’d do nothing when my fist collided with his jaw and it cracked. His whole head jerked to the side from the force of it. _I hurt him._

Then I was sure it had to be me. I could kill him. I could end this horrible nightmare and everything could go back to normal. 

But that’s not true, is it? Because she hurt him. She kicked his knee in. What was different about her? About me? Will we be able to recreate that again?   
  
It’s nauseating to think about, but at least now I’m sleeping on a couch instead of behind a dumpster. I’m full and warm and safe, at least I hope so.  
  


Maybe things are taking a turn for the better?

I squeeze my eyes shut forcibly and repeat that thought. Things are taking a turn for the better. Things have to be getting better. Things are-

* * *

When I crack my eyes open, the sun assaults my adjusting vision and I cringe. I lift a hand to shield my eyes as I blink crustily and yawn. I feel like a slug. 

It’s so bright in here. When did I fall asleep? How long was I out? When my eyes stop swimming, I turn my head and search for the clock on the coffee table.

“It’s noon?” I yawn, bewildered and not yet fully awake. So that’s why I feel like I’m wading through sludge, I overslept. A lot. Too much.

“Good morning,” a teasing voice says from the kitchen. I sit up and turn to look at her, shake the sleep from my head as the sunlight beams from the window onto her red-orange hair.

Oh no.

She smiles at me from the kitchen and waves patronizingly but I’m half in my own head at this point. This isn’t fair, okay? She isn’t allowed to be CUTE. I’m having enough of an internal crisis without being attracted to my “weird magic people who can hurt demons” buddy. 

I smile and wave back and restrain my scream of full-body frustration. Things were less complicated when I was sleeping behind a dumpster.

...But not better, I guess. I smell pancakes. “Quit cooking for me.”

“You haven’t eaten in a week.” She twirls her spatula in the air and tosses her hair, and I lose every bit of air in my lungs to a dreamy sigh. What the fuck, Mark? Thank God she doesn’t notice. A bit of pancake batter drips on to the front of her flannel and oh noooo, oh no oh fuck. “I’m going to make food and you’re going to eat it,” she continues, flicking the spatula at me from across the little bar. 

“Okay, mom,” I mutter, burying my face in my hands. It’s official: The universe is playing a very cruel prank on me. 

“Quit saying that,” she laughs, turning back to her cooking. “I’m being very nice to you, for being a wanted murderer and all.” She sobers up a little at the joke, and I grimace at how the air tenses up. “Speaking of…”

“Yeah, yeah, an explanation, I know.” I lean back on the couch. “In simple terms, Dark just kind of… split from me the night before the murders started. I had a bad headache, and it was just like… splitting in two. The worst pain I’ve ever experienced in my entire life.”

“Do you know what he wants?” She asks as she flips a pancake in the air.   
  
I ponder it for a few seconds. Do I, really? “No, but I can guess. He’s stuck close to my hiding spots, I think… if he wanted to kill me, he could have. But I saw him kill people, more than once. I just don’t know why.”

“Maybe he just wants to frame you and get you caught?” She says uncertainly, tilting her head and twisting her lips into a concentrated pout. I stare at the wall behind her and furiously will my beating heart to quiet. “But then why wouldn’t he just… idunno, turn you in? Video your hiding spot? Call the cops?”

“Yeah,” I agree, nodding along. “It wouldn’t make much sense. Does he just want to kill people indiscriminately? Maybe he just wants to freak me out?”

“Maybe,” she mutters, narrowing her eyes as she thinks. “But that would be pretty silly, wouldn’t it? Pretty tiny. It feels like there’s some ulterior goal.”

“I hope there’s not.” My eyes drift closed again, and I breathe in the sweet smell of pancakes deeply. Things feel okay right now, even if they’re sticky and complicated.

She doesn’t respond, just goes back to finishing breakfast. I’m thankful for the peace, the light from the sun behind my eyelids, the sizzle of the pan from the kitchen.

Yeah, okay. I guess this is alright.

“Bathroom’s behind you to the right,” she says, unprompted. I reach a hand to my temple and find where my hair is matted to my head with dried blood. “I think I have an unused brush in the cabinet.”  
  
“Do I really look that bad?” I laugh and push myself to the edge of the couch, sucking in a breath when my stomach stings at the movement, though honestly it doesn’t feel as bad as I’d expect a stomach wound to feel. Ignoring the pain, I heave myself up to my feet and lumber over to the door behind the couch, opening the door and walking in.

Ooh, the sight of me in the mirror is NOT pretty. I realize a little late that I never put my shirt back on after she patched me up, not like it wasn’t ruined anyway. I don’t like how thin I look, how I can see ribs poking through when I suck in (oof. Ouch. That hurt). There are bags under my eyes even though I slept for so long. Guess I’ve got a lot of catchup to do.

There’s blood all over the side of my head where he swiped at me. I touch it gingerly and wince. It’s tender, but not deep enough to worry about. I run the water and get set to cleaning myself up. 

Are you supposed to take a shower with gauze on? I shrug and walk over to the faucet, turning on the showerhead. A warm shower. What a long week it’s been.

* * *

  
  


I don’t realize how dirty and grimy I was until I step out of the shower and wrap myself up in a towel, restraining a sigh at the feeling of being clean and warm for once. I look around for my clothes and--

They’re not there. 

Did she steal my fucking clothes?

I make sure the towel is tight around my waist, check the bathroom again (I didn’t even hear the door open!), and restrain an angry blush as I step into the living room. “Hey, did you--”

“They’re in the wash.” She doesn’t even look up from her food as she interrupts me, and I feel an embarrassed, ashamed heat creep onto my cheeks unwarranted. I’m not a child, I can do that myself!

“I could have done that,” I pout, standing there awkwardly before I spot a new pair of clothes laying across the couch. Roughly my size, if a little big. “When did you…?”

“Ex-boyfriend,” she snorts, finally turning away from the bar to look at me. Is it my imagination, or does her eye twitch a bit before she continues? “Decided to break up with me over text, so I decided to keep his shit. Glad my being petty could help you out.” She pauses, then turns back around. “Hope they fit. They’re just until you can have your clothes back.”

They look like they’ll do, at least. I duck back into the bathroom and change, glancing angrily at my stomach as it rumbles. I change faster.

When I step out, cleaned up, hair brushed, warm clothes on, I smile. Okay. Alright. This is pretty alright. Better than running from alley to alley and sleeping behind dumpsters.

There are pancakes on a plate for me and I slide into the bar seat next to her, feeling refreshed and very awkward. “Thanks,” I mutter as she takes a heaping bite. She turns to give me a look as she slowly chews her food before responding, and for the first time I can see her eyes clearly.

They’re green, but smoky. Not dull so much as deep. As I start to get lost in them, I realize with a start that it’s not smoke in her eyes. It’s _stars._ What appears together as a dulling gray is really thousands of tiny twinkling lights, a nebula in her irises. It’s the craziest shit I’ve ever seen. I’ve never seen anything like it. What the fuck?

I’m staring, I realize a beat too late as she quirks an eyebrow at me, and I whip my head around with an embarrassed pang. Just eat your food, Mark. 

“You’re welcome,” she responds at last, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “You’ve been through a lot. It’s always better to plan a next move when you’re clean and safe. Clearer head that way.” She taps her head with a finger and immediately begins to pick pancake bits out of her hair. Messy eater, huh? That’s cute.

MARK, SHUT _UP._

I stifle a chuckle and dig in to the pancakes. They’re good and filling, and I’m finally starting to feel my strength returning.

“So what’s the game plan?” I stand up and carry my plate to the kitchen once I’m done, dropping it in the sink and rinsing. She rolls her eyes and lets me.

“You get better.”

“I’m better,” I insist, and she looks decidedly unconvinced. “Look, it’s not like we’ve got unlimited time here. The longer we wait around doing nothing, the more people are going to die.”

She looks uncomfortable in silence, and for a beat just opens her mouth as if to retort, but she knows I’m right. Finally, she slips off the barstool and nods as she carries her plate to the kitchen behind me. “Fine. We’ll plan our next move. But let me handle the ass kicking.” She gestures to her lace-up boots and I roll my eyes and grin.

“Oh, no way, sister.” I flex. She throws her head back and laughs, hearty and full.


	4. Chapter Four - Mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the "shit gets weird" chapter.

“This is a bad idea,” I mutter, sinking lower in my seat and glancing worriedly out the water-soaked windows.

“Shut up and draw up your hoodie,” she hisses through her teeth, turning her signal on and turning a corner maybe just a little harder than she has to. This is an absolutely terrible idea.

“Ah, yes, because driving around with my head stuck in a hoodie isn’t suspicious at all,” I hiss back, sliding even lower and doing as she says anyways. 

“You have the right to wear a hoodie, Mark,” she mutters, exasperation creeping into her tone, “but not to be a suspected serial murderer on the run from the law. Wear the hoodie.”

“Yeah, yeah. Why am I in the front seat, again?”

“You called shotgun. I could have just tossed you in the trunk.”

“Point taken.”

The rest of the ride passes in silence. We’re headed to her friend’s house, which to be honest sounds like the worst conceivable idea, but Gwen has assured me about seven million times that she’s called ahead and that her friend won’t turn us in. Which is a little comforting, I guess. A little.

When the car stops, I’m jolted awake, and my head throbs from where the vibration of the car has banged my skull into the window. Didn’t even know I fell asleep. When I undo the hoodie and glance out the window, my heart leaps into my throat out of raw confusion. 

We’re in a clearing in a dense forest. Looking around, I spot a house in the center of the clearing, as well as a garden growing flowers I’ve never seen. There’s somewhat of a path behind us with wheel tracks embedded into the muddy ground, and the sun can barely even filter through even though it’s noon, the trees above us block it out so much. The clearing is lit in a dim emerald glow by the few thin wisps of light that can struggle through the cracks. In this light, her eyes look more brilliant and sparkling than ever.

“Why are we in a forest?” I mutter sideways as she takes the key out of the ignition. She snorts again and opens her door. 

“Trust me on this one. Addie’s a little bit… strange… but she’s the best lead I’ve got.” I open my door and step out, a little unsteady on my feet, and close the door softly behind me. “Speaking of, stay behind me and don’t freak out.”  
  
“Very comforting,” I retort, voice thick with sarcasm. She rolls her starry eyes and waves exaggeratedly at me to follow, and I do, mostly because I don’t have any other choice. The house we’re approaching is more like a cottage; all manner of flowers, vines and shrubbery I can’t name grow lush all around and atop the house. The door is just a wrought-iron gate, but somehow I can’t see through it. There’s a path of stepping stones that Gwen follows, her steps confident as if she’s followed this path a million times, and I try to match her confidence. No need to be freaked out, right?

Then, a few feet back from the door, something seizes my chest and I suddenly feel like there’s an oppressive weight holding me down, making it difficult to breathe. I choke out a yell in my panic, collapsing to my knees and clutching at my chest. Is Dark here already? Is this his doing? 

At my yell, Gwen whirls around, and I can make out her cursing under her breath and muttering “shit. Forgot.” Forgot?  _ Forgot? _

“Addie!” She shouts at the door, backing up to where I’m at and putting a steady hand on my back. “It’s Gwen! He’s with me!” 

Another second passes, and then the weight is gone and I can breathe again. I lumber to my feet and gasp for air, shooting the absolute most furious look at her I can muster before I can speak. For her part, she looks vaguely sheepish, with an apologetic “oops” smile.

Before I can open my mouth and begin inquiring as to what, pray tell, the  _ fuck  _ that was, the door to the cottage opens with a creak and the person standing in the doorway commands my attention.

She’s a powerful presence in a way I can’t fully explain. Her eyes are a striking blue that pierce right through me, and the huge wooden staff she holds sways gently as she places a hand on her hip and sweeps her gaze over me. Studying me critically. I get the uneasy feeling she doesn’t like what she sees, but I don’t know why I’m worried about that-- she has to be a few years my junior, but she’s got the critical eye of a professor.

When she finally speaks, it’s with a disarmingly low but cheeky tone. “I thought we were done bringing boys to each others’ houses, Gwen. You’ve brought me a wanted murderer?”

“You’re a lesbian,” Gwen pops back, a smile spreading onto her face despite the obvious tension in the air. Doesn’t she feel it? The woman in the doorway slowly smiles back, and Gwen continues. “Got a favor to ask. I think you already understand it’s urgent.”

The woman nods and turns on her heel, retreating into her home as her shawl flaps in the nonexistent breeze, and Gwen stifles a laugh into her hand. “Don’t worry about her, she likes to be dramatic.” And then she starts walking into the house. I have no choice but to follow, a million questions bouncing around in my head.

The inside of the house looks exactly like one would expect a mysterious forest witch’s house to look like. The cottage is filled with plants in every corner, dusty bookshelves lining the walls, crystals and dried herbs scattered absolutely everywhere. The woman-- “Addie”?-- clears off a worn birch wood table by sweeping an arm across it and knocking everything on it (books, crystals, a whole tea kettle) to the floor. I don’t hear a crash, though, and when I look at the ground where the mess should be I don’t see anything.

Not even the weirdest thing I’ve seen this week, so okay. We’re doing this now, I guess.

Gwen sits at the table at the exact same time the witch sweeps herself dramatically into her chair, and the grinning redhead gestures for me to sit too, so I awkwardly pull out a chair and sit. The witch clears her throat and throws a pointed glance my way, then shoots a look at Gwen.

“Long story,” Gwen says with a yawn, stretching her arms back. “Mark, this is Adeline, local witch in the woods and my best friend since I was four.”   
  


“Five,” Adeline corrects gently. 

“I was four and you’ll let me have this today,” Gwen retorts as fast as the words come out of her friend’s mouth. “Anyway, Adeline, this is Mark, who I think you’ll find is not actually a serial murderer and rather is a pretty decent guy.”

“Thank you,” I respond, beaming at the… compliment.

Adeline just looks at me a little strangely for a few seconds, then closes her eyes and nods sagely. “Ah.” She smiles. “He’s a himbo.”

While my brain is still processing the word “himbo” coming out of the mouth of someone who looks like they could turn me into a frog, Gwen just barks out a laugh and nods. “Wouldn’t hurt a fly. I know you don’t use the internet much but this guy is a--”

“He’s a celebrity,” Adeline responds with a nod. “Yes, I do pay some attention to the goings on of the world these days. He raised lots of money for charity, had a very nice fanbase, then went insane and killed several dozen people. That’s the story, yes?”

Gwen shakes her head. “No to the last part. He’s got an evil doppelganger going around killing people and trying to frame him for murder.”

Adeline smiles a really strange smile, then, one that drops off her face after a few seconds as she turns to me. “Ah-hmm. Mark,” she says slowly. “Was this doppelganger… perhaps a character you played?”

“...Y-yeah,” I stutter out, hot shame flashing on my face. “It was really stupid, but I had a character named Darkiplier who was just an evil version of me. It started as a joke, but the fans really liked it, so I sorta kept writing with him. He was really popular. Now I guess he’s come to life?” I look desperately between the two women studying me as I talk, feeling like I’m out of my damn mind. “Is this a dream? I mean, have I gone insane? Are you going to tell me my fictional evil twin has come to like to go on a murder spree?”

“Well, no, I don’t suspect that’s the case,” Adeline responds as breezily as if she’s talking about the weather. “After all, mass thoughtforms require… hm...  _ civilization _ levels of sustained concentration, or a very strong practitioner, neither of which you have access to.” While I struggle to wrap my head around almost every word in that sentence, Adeline shoots a look at Gwen, who sticks out her tongue right back.

“Get to the point, Addie?” 

“Answer a few questions for me, dear.” Adeline responds, pushing her round glasses up the bridge of her nose. “You’ve encountered this being, both of you?”

I nod, and Gwen does too. 

“It seemed impervious to all manner of mortal attacks. Guns, knives, punches?”

“From everything but me,” I respond quickly, and add at Gwen’s glare, “and her.” 

Adeline freezes, then, clearly having stumbled across an answer. “No,” she mutters, “perhaps…”

“Have an answer, Addie?” 

The witch snaps her fingers and a positively enormous book materializes in the center of the table with a  _ crack _ , facing her. It falls open on its own, pages fluttering to a spot somewhere near the end of the book. “Have a look at this, Gwen.” 

Gwen stands up and leans over the table to get a better look, then after a few moments, sucks in a breath. She glances up incredulously at her friend, who nods. “Addie, you don’t seriously believe this.”

“It seems rather likely to me.” 

“This is once-in-a-millennia stuff you’re talking about. Can’t it just be a regular demon? There are tons of regular demons you can pick, aren’t there?”

I have never been more confused in my life, and I’m sure I look like it. Adeline shoots me a look, and Gwen glances back at me, looking hard for something. I’m not sure what. 

“You see it, don’t you?” Adeline prods a finger into Gwen’s chest, who swats it away and returns to her seat. “You know there’s a chance I’m right.”

“No, there’s not, actually. Sure he’s a nice guy, but when they fought yesterday the doppelganger hurt him. Made him bleed. That can’t happen if he’s…”

“Well then there’s an easy way to check, isn’t there?” Adeline interrupts Gwen mid-thought and turns to me again. “Mark, take off your bandages and check your injuries. If I’m wrong, it’ll still be there.”

“...What?” I ask, incredulity sneaking into my voice. “Why?”

“Just do it,” Gwen mutters, putting her head in her hands. “It’ll get Addie to shut up and she was a nurse so she’ll probably wrap you back up better than I could.”

Well, I guess I sort of trust Gwen, so I pull my shirt off and feel incredibly stupid as I unwrap the gauze thickly spun around my waist. And then, as the last bit comes off-- 

Oh. Huh. Weird. There’s  _ nothing there. _

Gwen looks like she’s about to have an aneurysm, and I feel exactly the same. “Alright, cool, can anyone start explaining what’s going on?” I’m beginning to nurse a terrible, throbbing headache that I get the feeling is not going to get better before it gets worse. 

“Well, to begin, you’re a world-soul,” Adeline supplies unhelpfully, and the look on Gwen’s horrified face before she plants it in her hands tells me that’s not a good thing.


	5. Chapter Five - Gwendolyn

I know what Addie is suggesting and it’s utterly fucking absurd. I came here for demon hunting tips and tea, not to be told my stupid idiot YouTube crush is the harbinger of the end of the goddamn world.

It’s not at all that I don’t trust Addie. She’s been my best friend since before I can remember, and she’s always been right when I’ve asked her for advice (although I still think divining the future counts as cheating). 

“Addie.” I raise my head from my hands and meet her piercing gave evenly. “My best, dearest friend. I can name ten possible things off the top of my head that fit our description that are not the World-Eater.”

“The what?” Mark explains, exasperated, and I realize for the twentieth time this conversation that none of this is normal for him, not like it particularly is for me, either. “What is going on? Can you two slow down and explain all this woo-woo bullshit from the beginning, preferably in english?”

“Oh, shame, I was going to start in latin,” Addie remarks slyly. Mark sighs deeply and looks like he doesn’t want to be here and I can’t really blame him. It feels like my world is getting flipped upside-down, too.

“Look, if you told me two weeks ago that I’d be talking to someone who can make shit appear out of thin air and summon dramatic breezes at a whim I’d laugh until I cried or punch you.” He fumbles with his words, his face a little red as he puts together his point. “But I’ve watched a man with my face slaughter people with a smile, take bullets like they’re mosquito bites. I’m ready to accept anything at this point, but I’m not stupid, so please just... explain. From the beginning.”

Adeline’s smile (which I know she thinks is just a wise smile of a sage mentor but is really pretty condescending) falters, then evens into something of a more natural expression for the situation. Then she gestures with one hand at me, quirking an eyebrow.

Ah. Right. The whole “knows how to talk like a normal person” thing is one of my skills.

...Usually.

“Well, we’re witches.” It feels especially silly coming out of my mouth. It’s not like I’m usually involved in this sort of thing, and this isn’t something you explain to people often. “Some people are born with the ability to do magic. I’d convince you, but--”

“The whole “my evil twin-slash-thought-demon” thing?”

“Yeah, that sorta skips the disbelief part of the explanation.” I laugh. “Adeline here is from a long and storied bloodline. I’m just the drop of magic that falls down the family tree.”

“Gwendolyn can do magic but usually decides not to,” Adeline interjects, and I nod softly in agreement. “So she’s rather out of practice and has forgotten some of the legends we were taught as children.” 

“Hey, rude,” I snap back, but it’s in jest and she knows it. “Sorry I didn’t mention this, Mark, but to be honest everything has gone really fast and it’s not like it usually comes to mind.”

“I’d take issue with the fact that you didn’t think it was appropriate to let me know you’re a… witch… considering we’re talking about fighting some supernatural demon thing, but at this point, whatever, not the weirdest thing.” He waves his hand about his face. “I still feel like I’m being punk’d. I keep expecting the camera crew to pop out at any moment.”

“Better not be cameras,” I mutter, and Addie giggles. 

“Moving on.” Mark quickly stops Addie from going on whatever discussion about magic and technology she was preparing for, and honestly, thank god. “Tell me about that… what was it? World-soul thing?”

“It-” Addie begins, and I cut her off.

“It’s part of an old story we get taught as children.” Mark’s attention is focused on me, and I’m thankful for the way Addie settles into her seat and allows me to explain this time. “‘The rise of the World-Eater.’ It’s like Ragnarok or Revelations in mythology, except it’s supposedly real.” 

“So it’s an end of the world story?” Mark looks increasingly nervous, and I roll my eyes.

“Yeah, it’s pretty simple, honestly. Someone does a bunch of good in the world and influences a ton of people for the better, and the universe naturally wants to balance them out, so a massive, concentrated force of evil is created and it bubbles beneath the surface until it can find a vessel and. Well. Destroy everything, essentially. That’s the World-Eater.”

“Sounds fun,” Mark remarks quietly. 

“Not like it matters, but Addie thinks you’re a world-soul and Darkiplier became the vessel for the world-eater and that means the world is ending and you’re the only one who can save it, so, y’know. Completely baselessly, might I add.”

“Oh, yeah, no, not like it matters?!” Mark hisses, face red. 

“It’s not like she’s right!” I hiss right back, throwing my hands into the air. “I mean, sure, Dark can’t hurt you permanently, and okay, you fit the description of a world-soul what with all the charity and good-person-being stuff… and alright, maybe most demons can’t exactly materialize physically and be unharmed by mortal weapons when they do… and… ”

Oh fuck. Oh shit. Oh no.

“I’m right again,” Adeline says, tilting her head up with that damned knowing smile.

No no no no no no no no no. This can’t be happening. My stupid YouTube crush cannot be the chosen one, the world cannot be ending, and I fucking cannot be roped into the role of supporting witch-sidekick. I can barely do magic! I never learned because I didn’t want to be involved in-- well-- EXACTLY this kind of thing! I just wanted to bake cookies. I just wanted to eat my cookies, man.

“So what you’re telling me,” Mark says very slowly, his voice low and strong, “is that my fictional alter-ego is actually a malevolent deity, hell-bent on destroying the world?” 

“Yes,” I squeak out, very strongly suppressing the urge to slam my forehead into the nearest wall.

“And you’re sure about this? Like, this isn’t some inside-witch joke? I’m not being pranked?” 

“This is deadly serious,” Adeline quips. “The World-Eater is a threat to the very existence of life as we know it, and the only person who can stop it is the world-soul who created it… and that’s you, Mark.”

He’s taking it pretty well, I think. Mark stares at his open palms resting on the table, eyebrows furrowed, deep in thought. He looks like he’s wrestling with himself, and why wouldn’t he be? He’s gone from YouTuber to potential savior of the universe in the span of about a week. 

“There’s some stuff I don’t understand,” he says finally, raising his head to regard Adeline. She returns his gaze with something blooming in her eyes-- respect? “First, if he wants to destroy the world, why is he killing just some people in L.A.? And also, if I’m the only one who can kill him, how did Gwen hurt him?”

“I cannot predict the whims of a malevolent destroyer-god,” Adeline deadpans. “However, I can venture a guess. Because the World-Eater--”

“Call him Dark, thanks, it’s easier on the ears,” I butt in. Adeline glares at me and I halfheartedly stick out my tongue.

“...Because Dark cannot kill you directly, I assume he intends to utilize the police to get you out of the way by framing you for murder.” 

“And me?” I’m overwhelmed too, but it’s a good question. If Dark really is the invulnerable World-Eater, it doesn’t make any sense that I’d be able to kick his knee in, right?

“That, I… I’m not sure of. Perhaps it’s simply the proximity to Mark that did it? It’s not as though the World-Eater is particularly well-documented. There aren’t tests for these things.”

“Oh, yeah, we found the solution. Lure him to a lab and study him.”

“Gwen, please take this seriously,” Addie scolds.

“I am,” I respond with a deep, dramatic sigh. I have more than earned a dramatic sigh, I think. I have earned a thousand dramatic sighs, and I intend to use them. “So lay the solution on us.”

“I thought the solution was me killing him?” Mark jumps into the conversation. “You know. Stabbing him to death. Punching, if I have to. I could do it.”

“A+ for enthusiasm, Mark, but unfortunately you alone can’t kill the Wo-- … Dark.” Addie flips the page of the book in front of her gingerly. “You can hurt him, certainly, and possibly so can Gwen here if you’re around, but the World-Eater is unkillable by its very nature.”

I know this part. “There’s a weapon that can kill him.” Me and Mark share a look before I continue, and his insistent gaze spurs me on. “It’s a fabled weapon. Nobody knows what it really is-- I always imagined it as a bow and arrow, but it’s really anyone’s guess. It’s said to only appear to the world-soul when the time comes to face the world-eater.”

Adeline nods, pointing to the page, and Mark and I both lean in. There’s a drawing of an angel, penned in black ink, in the middle of the page, and it holds a sword as large as its body. Above the image (or below it from my perspective) is a word, and I tilt my head to read it. 

“V...Valrihel?” Mark enunciates slowly. 

“So that’s what we’re looking for, then.” I commit the word to memory, trace across it on the page with my finger. “The Valrihel.”

“Yes,” Adeline says, nodding. “The Valrihel is the weapon that Mark must wield to save the world and slay the World-Eater. It is up to you now.”

The word burns itself into my mind.

The Valrihel.

Guess we’re going on a quest to save the world, huh?


End file.
